


Worth the Wait

by prototyping



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I call this friends to spouses to lovers(?), Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, Romance, take or leave the question mark as you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: In the end, Ingrid didn’t marry for love, after all—not the kind she expected, at least.[Written for day 5 of DimitriWeek2020, “scars/healing.”]
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Worth the Wait

Ingrid wakes to an uneasy feeling. Her mouth curves into a frown even before her eyes adjust to the darkness and she remains still there on her side, groggy senses struggling. Despite the silence, the feeling grows.

She rolls onto her back and something about that feels wrong, too—no warmth beside her, the way the blankets are bunched up in the middle of the bed—

The milky greys and blues of the dark room ease into familiar shapes. The fog of sleep fades enough for her to put two and two together.

“Dimitri?”

She feels a light tremor in the bed and knows he’s awake and aware. _How_ awake and aware, she can’t be certain, so she curbs the impulse to immediately reach out. “Are you awake?” she asks, forcing a firmness into her tired voice.

“Yes… I’m here, Ingrid.”

He sounds so tired, his breath escaping heavily between his words. The use of her name is reassuring, their agreed-upon sign that he’s fit to speak and be spoken to, so she lets out the breath she’s holding.

“Good. I’m here, too.” She finds his hand atop the sheets and wraps her fingers around it. His skin is clammy. She waits, but he doesn’t twitch or withdraw.

After a long moment, he returns her grip with obvious care. “I’m alright,” he says quietly. The exhaustion is still there, but he sounds steadier, more present. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

She smiles so that he’ll hear it in her voice. “Only a little. Shall I read to you?”

The tinge of formality is still there, even a year later. It’s more respect than service, much like the way he’s still _Your Majesty_ when they’re in public. He only recently stopped reminding her that she doesn’t need to be so formal, finally acknowledging that she treats him like she does because she wants to, because she’s comfortable with it.

His shadow nods. “Please.”

Ingrid lights the candle on the bedside table, retrieves the worn book beside it, and pushes her pillows against the headboard to make herself comfortable.

In the candlelight, Dimitri looks as tired as he sounds. She still struggles with the urge to avert her eyes from him sometimes and this is one of them, wary of staring too long at the shadows on his face or the scar over his blind eye or the flush of emotion in his cheeks. She doesn’t want to see something she shouldn’t.

But Dimitri doesn’t turn away or show any shame in his vulnerable state. Like always, he’s quicker than she is to try and level the field between them; he hesitated that first night, seeming afraid of offending her (as though she could ever be repulsed by his scars when he looked at her _like that_ and touched her so carefully), but he didn’t doubt her acceptance of him. Since then he’s been as at ease with her as he ever was, even if he still apologizes for nights like these, when his nightmares disturb them both.

Her tired eyes blur the words on the first page, but she doesn’t need to see them. They’ve done this often enough that she has the first half of the book memorized.

Tonight, he settles close against her—comfortably, if still carefully so he doesn’t give her too much of his weight, no longer hesitant as though he’s uncertain about inconveniencing her. He’s warm against her side, his breath on her neck warmer still.

It’s an old Kingdom fable, one they’ve known for so long that neither of them can say for certain when they first heard it. Dimitri thinks his stepmother told it to him, although that version was a little different from the one in print; Ingrid thinks it was one of the first books she read on her own. It’s filled with the usual ideals of Faerghus: honor and glory, hard-fought victories, and the likable, just hero who finds peace and love by the end of the story.

Usually, Ingrid only ever makes it as far as the knight’s return journey home—a joyful, celebrated affair across the countryside—before Dimitri drifts off. As she turns the page to the next chapter, where the hero meets the fair noblewoman who will soon become the love of his life, she notices the light sound of his breathing and realizes he’s still awake.

“You’re usually asleep by now.” She tries to look at him, but his face is hidden in the crook of her neck. “Am I too loud?”

“Not at all.” He pulls back, a soft and thoughtful look on his face. “I enjoy hearing your voice. It’s comforting.” Slowly, as though giving her time to retreat if she desires, his hand moves up to cover hers and support it beneath the book. Dimitri moves even closer, looping his arm loosely around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder, as if to read along with her.

It surprises her. The two of them aren’t _distant_ , at least not intentionally, but she’s found Dimitri’s physical needs to be simple, just the occasional trusting touch and the reassurance of her willingness to stay by his side. Hers are even simpler, having never been someone to seek out that kind of closeness. They have their nights where plain desire decides that none of that really matters, and in the end it’s a dynamic that _works_ , just like they decided their union would _work_ because they were already close to each other, comfortable with each other, and go well together.

But there’s no heat in his touch this time, no shy kiss seeking permission for something more. He simply holds her—curls around her, really, with none of the awkward uncertainty that they started out with. Maybe he’s too tired to think straight, or maybe it’s entirely intentional. Either way, it’s one of the most natural gestures he’s made towards her and Ingrid can’t help the touch of warmth in her face, as silly as it strikes her.

“If you’re willing,” he says, “I’d like to try making it to the end tonight.”

She gives him a sidelong glance. “I am. But we might be up for a while,” she points out, indicating the number of pages left. The last thing she wants is for him to push himself.

“It’s alright. I think I’ve denied the hero and his lady their happy ending for long enough.”

She chuckles. “But they have some tough times to get through before then. If you fall asleep too soon, you might leave them in a worse spot.”

“Perhaps… But being together amid conflict is better than not being together at all, wouldn’t you say?”

Ingrid laughs again. “You know… I was afraid of embarrassing you, so I never said anything, but I always suspected you were more attracted to the emotional parts of these stories.”

“Oh?”

“I swear I remember you tearing up when Sylvain read us the story of King Letholdus—the scene where his brother returned after being presumed dead, remember?”

“...That was ages ago, Ingrid.”

“And I still remember it well.” She shifts in his arms to catch his eye. “I think… that was around the time I decided that I wanted to serve you. Not because my father did, or even as a citizen of Faerghus… but because I myself saw something admirable in you. And I was fortunate enough to be proven right more than once.”

His amused snort stirs her hair. “Few would look at a soft heart the way you do. But… I’m glad you did.”

Lowering the book to her lap, Ingrid twists a little more so that she’s looking at him fully. “To be honest, Dimitri, I used to think… Well, after a point I was pretty much resigned to the idea that I would be married one day, willingly or no. And I thought that I would be very lucky if I managed to marry for love, and luckier still if that man was half as kind as you.”

She lowers her eyes as she goes on, “It never even entered my mind that I might find someone who would see me as Ingrid first, his wife second. I never thought…”

She never thought that she could be _both_.

She never thought she could enjoy this sort of casual intimacy—she didn’t dare to hope that a man would _ask_ her to his bed rather than making it an obligation, that she wouldn’t be shamed for not falling in line with her lord’s desires.

And yet here she is now, wed year-long to the King of Faerghus, a man expected to continue his bloodline without exception—and not once has he spoken of what she _needs_ to do, _should_ do. Not once has he shown even a flicker of displeasure when she informed him that she wasn’t with child. Not once has she felt pressured by his expectations or fearful of his disappointment.

She never thought she would be consulted on whether she was ready for that commitment. Dimitri, however, made sure to do just that early on, long before he touched her on the night of their wedding.

But that’s a lot to say and Ingrid isn’t sure she can get the right words together. Instead, she gives him a smile and his hand a fond squeeze.

“I’ve always thought that it takes a special kind of strength to be as soft-hearted as you are in your position. And I’ve never wished for you to be anything else.”

A look of mild surprise crosses his face, and then he glances aside self-consciously. “You speak as though I’ve done something worth praise. I would argue the contrary—I am grateful every day that you gave me your hand, but I am even more grateful that you’ve accepted me as I am. Just as you’ve always done.” He gently returns the squeeze of her hand as he looks at her again. “Although perhaps I don’t say it enough.”

She shakes her head with a quirk in her smile. “I’ve known that for a long time.” Slowly, she reaches up and brushes her fingertips across his cheek. Something inside her melts when he leans into her hand, filling her palm with his warm skin and tickling her with his soft breath. Dimitri would never say it, surely wary of making her feel obligated to act, but he really does like being touched. Even the smallest gestures of contact always catch his attention and earn a smile.

In the end, Ingrid didn’t marry for love, after all—not the kind she expected, at least. She loved him like she loved few others, but that wasn’t the same as being _in_ love with him. He was of the same mind, she knew. But there are moments, like this one, when she’s reminded that a lifetime is a long time.

She lets her hand linger as she asks, “Well… shall we continue the story?”

It’s not one of _those_ nights, but Ingrid gently and wordlessly invites him into a close tangle on their sides—his arms around her and his head against her chest while she props the book on the pillow behind him in one hand, the other combing tenderly through his hair.

Before long, the room is silent except for her voice. Every once in a while Dimitri gives a small touch here, a shift of his weight there, that tells her he’s still awake, but she doesn’t need proof. As always, she trusts him to be good and true to his word.


End file.
